


two degrees east, three degrees west

by nausicaa_of_phaeacia



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Daisy's huge crush on Coulson, F/M, Gen, Post "Maveth", Prompt Fic, Season/Series 03, skoulsonfest2k16
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-04
Updated: 2016-02-04
Packaged: 2018-05-18 03:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5896279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nausicaa_of_phaeacia/pseuds/nausicaa_of_phaeacia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team's been having a hard time. Daisy notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	two degrees east, three degrees west

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zauberer_sirin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zauberer_sirin/gifts), [hamsterfactor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamsterfactor/gifts).



> I don't even know what I'm doing.  
> This is a belated contribution to the #Skoulsonfest2k16, I wrote it for the prompt  
> [DOUBLE LATTE]  
> (from Day 3).  
> I apologize, I don't know what's up with the pacing (also, my tenses. I was really confused this time). Like most of my fics, I'd been planning to write a different fic, but that's what I ended up with. Hope you like! :)
> 
> For zauberer_sirin and hamsterfactor. Thanks for everything. You are superheroes. ♥

They haven’t really been talking to each other since they’ve returned; not on purpose, no, but things have been complicated. Daisy does feel guilty about it, but he seems to spend more time with May again, and she feels like it’s absolutely the right thing to do for someone in Coulson’s place: May’s been sidelined a few too many times lately, despite the fact that she has always been a constant to the team, never one to disappoint.

Mack’s been doing an incredibly good job, as far as constants go. It’s really not like Coulson didn’t do his job well, Daisy of all people is never going to criticize his way of leading S.H.I.E.L.D.: not in hindsight anyways, because that’s an awful thing to do, especially considering how he always put his own needs last of all, and considering the impossible amount of hours a week he’s been spending either on mission, or in his office going over plans and strategies and files and tons of data time and time again. If he’s failed the organization in whatever way, it was not for lack of dedication.

It’s lack of dedication though that Lincoln is suggesting every now and then: at breakfast; right after sex; in the car; when she steps out of the shower; in the middle of the night when she’s trying not to move her head even though her neck hurts from making compromises concerning cuddling. She figures he’s right; and she can’t even come up with a really good retort because she knows she indeed hasn’t given her best. Some nights, she feels like she’s slipping away from him, unintentionally; like she’s trying but not really _there_ , and even though he’s really been difficult to be around lately (especially for the rest of the team), it’s not his fault. She sort of hopes she’s past the phase where she’s always looking for the mistake in herself first whenever something goes wrong (that’s what Miles told her she used to do, anyway), but this time, their relationship goes south because her head and soul (she’s not going to say heart, because she’s not sure what’s up with her heart in general; she can’t remember actually, you know, _using_ it in what feels like ages) are somewhere else.

Everyone in the team has had so much on their plate, lately, and Daisy feels that Mack and her have sort of provided the glue for everyone else. May’s displaying her usual self, not even flinching whenever Andrew comes up accidentally in mission conversations, but Daisy’s noticed the small changes in her sparring behaviour: her moves have gotten more angular, her defense blows just the slightest bit more indecisive. The others are more or less tiptoeing around her, unsure of what they’re supposed to do. Daisy’s at a loss, too, especially since she knows that should May indeed be in need of a confidante, she’ll make herself understood (also, turn to Coulson first). So, what she does is walk over to May’s bunk one Saturday even before sparring, knock on her door and place a large mug of coffee on the floor before her bunk, the napkin she places it on reading simply, ‘Good morning, May’ with a smiley face next to it. May doesn’t mention it at all, but she almost demonstratively puts a slice of Jemma’s cheesecake in front of Daisy when she’s in the middle of figuring out a hacker collective’s database about potential HYDRA associates.

***

When Hunter leaves, Bobbi starts to sort of just _fade_ and the first thing Daisy notices is how Mack pretty much doesn’t even leave his office anymore. The most upsetting detail about the whole thing are Bobbi’s eyes, noticeably red every morning: from lack of sleep or crying. It’s not like Lance didn’t say goodbye; if Daisy’s not mistaken, they even had some sort of goodbye dinner and a large and amicable goodbye hug. But it’s obvious how even though it was clear Hunter was going to leave (it had been for a few weeks), Bobbi’s just crushed. One evening, she tells Daisy it’s not because she loves him; it’s because she doesn’t love him anymore. Not _like that_ anyways. 

Mack’s burying himself in files, not unlike Coulson’s done a few times in the past. It takes a few days until Daisy’s done watching and waiting for something to change, but at one point, she decides enough is enough, stomps into the Director’s office with two large mugs of coffee, pretty much _orders_ Mack (as a friend, of course) to just goddamn walk over to Bobbi’s bunk already and talk to her. Over coffee, obviously. Mack kind of just smirks at her, but that one look is enough to let Daisy know how grateful he is for her intervention. The next morning, Bobbi’s eyes look less red, and Daisy swears she’s even heard her giggle in the training room before the daily team briefing.

***

Daisy really wouldn’t have thought Fitz would need any extra attention; somehow, he hasn’t really been in her focus lately. To be honest – and that’s actually a really bad thing when you’re in a team, even more so when you’re sort of trying to be a team leader in the near future – she’s more or less lost her respect for him ever since Jemma disappeared. Not immediately, of course; she’s never felt close to Fitz, really (except when he so vehemently defended her from herself while in quarantine), and the way he’s been treating Jemma lately is just something Daisy can’t tolerate. 

She sort of feels ashamed for not standing up for Jemma more; on the other hand, she’s not sure how much Jemma loves Fitz or still loves Fitz or what – she’s basically afraid to intrude. Whatever happens, she’ll be there for her, but Jemma has to decide for herself. And Daisy figures it’s time she needs. Some afternoon during a heavy rain intermezzo, though, it turns out that Fitz confronted her about her feelings (because apparently, he felt like enough time had passed since ... well, since Will) and that she politely but honestly turned him down. 

It results in Jemma crying and crying, feet pulled up on Daisy’s bunk bed, tears dripping and dripping onto the pillows, ice cream being the operative word of the night, coffee a thing Daisy suggests at about four in the morning and Jemma agrees to, provided that there will be soy milk in it. Daisy runs to the Koenigs’ bunk, knowing they’ll be both awake and in possession of all kinds of non-cow’s milk. When she returns, Jemma’s applied makeup and pulled her hair up into a perfect bun. She smilingly accepts the mug, and they just sit there, sipping coffee, until Daisy’s alarm goes off.

“He doesn’t deserve you, Jemma,” she tells her friend as she’s setting the alarm for the following day. Simmons half-smiles. “I know. But he deserves some coffee. Especially since he’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Daisy looks at her questioningly. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. He told me that, too. He went to talk to Mack yesterday. I guess he ... needs some peace. Quiet.”  
“Okay,” Daisy concedes, “I’ll go and switch the coffee maker on again.”  
When she walks over to Fitz’ bunk and knocks, there’s no answer. She knocks again, only to discover that the door’s not really closed and the bunk completely empty. When Jemma catches up with her and peeks into the bunk, the look on her face is all but surprised. There’s just a sigh and Daisy assumes it’s the last they’ll be seeing of him, because the way Jemma finishes her own mug of coffee has something wild, something incredibly resolute to it. Closing the door, Daisy high-fives her, and they exchange a tiny giggle. Ice cream is really underestimated, she thinks as she’s walking back to ops with Jemma. 

***

It’s only when Joey gives her a second mug of coffee that the thought occurs to her that maybe it would be nice to have breakfast together with Lincoln again. Strangely, it doesn’t strike her as a personal necessity; it’s more of a civilized idea, a standard couple move, something you’re _supposed_ to be doing, should you be one half of a decent, normal relationship. And maybe that’s exactly the problem: being with Lincoln doesn’t exactly feel like a relationship. Not like a romantic relationship, anyways.

When she walks back to her bunk (well, they’ve been sharing it for two months or so) with both mugs, he gives her a very strange look, as if to say _why do you suddenly care about this?_ but remains silent, drinks the coffee. The lack of appreciation makes her want to cry – even though it’s probably not the absence of appreciative remarks that’s making her upset, it’s something else, a lack of warmth maybe, a lack of random hugs, a lack of invincible urges to laugh spontaneously.

She places their empty mugs on her windowsill, making a mental note to carry them back to the Playground’s kitchen, then forgets, and they still sit there, a sort of sad memento, after he’s left. The base he’ll be working at is not exactly far away, and it wouldn’t actually be complicated to meet him, but when he awkwardly stands in the doorway before their goodbye, his seabag over his shoulder, it somehow goes without saying that this is _actually_ goodbye, that they aren’t on bad terms, but that kissing terms are a thing of the past. It’s odd, she thinks, how his departure comes more as a relief than a tragedy.

***

She’d be lying if she said that she hasn’t been thinking about talking to Coulson every day. Ever since he returned, his robot hand gone, things have been strange between the two of them. To be honest, she instantly figures him out: he killed Ward with the prosthetic, that’s why he left it there, an alien part of him that he prefer to detach and leave on an alien planet. Daisy wonders if that means that he couldn’t have done it with his own two hands, if he had to use something that wasn’t really a part of him, not a part of _Phil Coulson_. 

In any case, he hasn’t been himself lately, and it’s pretty obvious that even though he left the robot hand in outer space, the acute memory of what happened is still very much attached to him. He’s talking to May sometimes, she knows as much; she keeps joining him in the hangar, sitting on the steps, looking at Lola but speaking to Melinda, and Daisy’s not really sure who is comforting whom. It’s not jealousy, but it breaks her heart a little not to be the one sitting there. She misses him; she misses the stupid video games, the awkward night-time kitchen run-ins, the occasional recruitment road trips in Lola; she misses being allowed to call him Phil (not that anyone’s told her she shouldn’t be doing it anymore, but it feels wrong) and hatching up strategies together; she misses bursting into his office with two helpings of canned ravioli or another kind of non-committal and unsuspicious food to find him sort of absent-mindedly half-dancing to one of Ella’s records while going through a huge stash of thick files.

Mack’s been a perfect Director, and this isn’t about that; to be fair, there probably are no opportunities for recruitment trips or sacrificing a night’s sleep to come up with solid mission strategies together anymore, but it seems sort of sad to forgo the other things. There have been a few occasions upon which she’s almost knocked at his bunk door, sometimes even with a mug of warm milk (or two glasses of bourbon), but then didn’t dare to. At first, she thought things would change with Lincoln gone, but they haven’t, not really, and after a few days, she’s asking herself why she ever thought that. As if Lincoln’s presence or absence would ever effect Coulson’s relationship with her (or his mood, for that matter). 

It does make her feel stupid, but she finds herself trying to provoke Coulson to smile every now and then. It doesn’t really work; the maximum she’s getting in response to her hopefully very subtle tactics is the occasional trademark smirk, but it always feels hollow and a little sad. She’s tackled so many things during the past few months, but retrieving the Coulson she misses hasn’t been one of them; on the contrary, he seems to shrink away from everyone. Things just have been really hard lately, and she swears the only thing that keeps her going sometimes is the occasional brief shoulder squeeze from Mack, because it counts as an _I know you can do it_ , as an _I know it sucks, but there’s an end in sight, trust me_ \- well, as an _I know_.

***

They end up on a mission together; she side-eyes Mack when he tells them, but he gives a really tiny shrug, probably meaning it’s just because their profiles match the skills required for the current task, but maybe also meaning it shouldn’t even be a reason to get side-eyed by Daisy. Either way, her stomach is doing all kinds of things that feel something like butterflies, but probably are a great deal of nervousness (her hands haven’t been sweaty in forever, but apparently, today’s her lucky day) and not-so-optimistic anticipation. 

It’s a pretty simple mission, and everything goes relatively well. What does happen, though, is that they get stuck in Avon Lake, Ohio, because the pilot gets shot at and backup won’t be there until the following day. Needless to say, it’s a tiny place, and they’re going to have to make do with a tiny room above the village bar, inmidst dark wooden furniture and pseudo-historical landscape paintings done in oil. At first, they pass the time by taking turns using the shower and noisy blow-dryer, absent-mindedly sifting through the year-old magazines on the small table by the window while the other is in the bathroom. The elephant in the room is undeniably present, though, and after an excruciatingly long hour or so, Coulson suggests they go down to the bar, and she feels disproportionately eager to agree.

It doesn’t take her long to feel the effects of the alcohol, and she wonders if it’s just her, but then Coulson’s walking over to the jukebox in the corner, selects an Elvis classic (she can’t remember the title), so he must be a little tipsy, too. It’s not a bad feeling, though; she feels warm from head to toes, and Coulson’s flat-out smiling at her, so she guesses it’s not just the heat colouring her cheeks. In the end, they spend the night talking, leaving for their room only when the bar’s owner is done cleaning, all chairs except theirs turned over. Daisy doesn’t know why, but she asks for another bottle of the white wine they’ve been drinking all night, and they finish it on the room’s minute balcony, sharing the bottle. 

When they finally go to bed, it proves hard to keep any real distance between them, since the mattress feels like it’s worth some decades of hotel business history and is shaped like a pit. Daisy can’t help giggling at first; it takes them a while to figure out how to position themselves without accidentally touching their elbows or knees together. Some time passes, but from the rhythm of their breathing, it’s pretty clear they won’t find sleep like this. 

She goes first.  
“Can you still feel your arm?”  
He chuckles. “Which one? The one hanging from the bed or the one I put all my weight on?”  
She laughs, and maybe it’s just the wine, but she can’t remember laughing like this during the past few months. “Move over here,” she grits through her teeth playfully. “I can offer you like twenty centimetres.”  
“Well, can’t resist such a generous offer,” he shoots back, trying to untangle his limbs so he can move a little more towards the centre of the bed. “What about you?”  
“To be honest, I was going to ask you if you could return the offer.”  
“Be my guest. Team policy. Equal treatment.”  
He hears her nestle, then her hand is on his, and his heart almost stops until he realizes she’s only trying to shake it. “Hi, I’m Daisy. Pleased to meet you. Sorry about the, uh, exceptional circumstances.”  
She hears him smile as he squeezes her hand.  
“Phil. Hi. That’s okay. Hope you’re comfortable.”  
“I am, thank you, although ... I’d be a lot more comfortable if you could just move your knee, like, a millimetre to the right. It’s basically inside my hip.”  
Again, chuckling, but it sounds a little different now, and to be honest, even though it’s completely dark and she can’t really tell like his, she’s pretty sure there’s actually a lot of tension between them now as he moves his leg very slightly and she adjusts her weight. 

Suddenly, her lips are on his, and they both taste like a lot of Sauvignon and a lot of smiles, and it’s both unexpected and wonderful, and she doesn’t think she’ll be able to tell herself in the morning how it all happened, and how all of a sudden, there wasn’t even a nanometre of mattress space between them, until they fell asleep at the very centre of the bed, skin on skin, their bodies so warm that not even the cold air surging in through the window at daybreak wakes them.

***

When she opens her eyes again, the room is filled with sunshine, but Coulson’s gone. Daisy _knows_ he can’t be far away, that he’s probably gone to answer the phone or to shower or to breathe some fresh air, but during the few minutes until she hears him open the door again, volumes and volumes of worrying thoughts rush through her head, and it must show on her face, because the look on his as he half-whispers, “Good-morning, gorgeous” is one so full of _feeling_ that she finds herself unable to explain how she was able to make it through Lincoln’s death-dealing murmuring at dawn.

She beams at him, and he hands her one of two very hot mugs of coffee he’s been carrying, the content of hers much lighter than his, and he explains how the landlady didn’t know what to bring him in response to his trying to order a “double latte” for Daisy, that all she was able to work with was detailed information on the desired amounts of milk and sugar, and that he’d planned to bring her some cake, too, but all they had downstairs were those annoyingly miniature coffee-house cookies and that he’d decided to bring her a small bag of those. She doesn’t have the heart to interrupt him, but in this moment, Phil half-sitting on this pit of a bed, the faint morning light casting a slight shadow on the wall behind him, him gesturing around vividly, steaming mug in hand, his hair slightly tousled, his eyes bearing the tiny spark she hadn’t seen in such a long time, she knows this is it, this is what she’s been waiting for.

**Author's Note:**

> [As for the title: I've been listening to Paul Desmond a lot lately.]
> 
> Thanks for reading! :) Tell me what you think! ♥


End file.
